Contests

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The topic of race and gender is divisive in today’s political climate. On one hand, some claim that color doesn’t really matter – that we’re all the same. While this may be true, failing to acknowledge and invite ethnic and cultural diversity can create a homogenous culture that perpetuates longstanding stereotypes and raises barriers to entry for minorities. 

On the other hand, some claim that color is the primary distinguishing factor between people – some call “identity politics.” While this may be true, overemphasizing the ** can create an artificial hierarchy based on historical stereotypes that perpetuates the victim mentality and inflames longstanding hostilities between peoples.

Since I lean center-right politically, the conferences I attend and organizations I associate with tend to fall into the first camp. I have no doubt that leaders in these organizations fully believe in racial equality and see each individual as fully worthy of respect and dignity, regardless of skin color. However, it’s still hard to ignore the obvious: that I am usually one of the few minorities present in the room. 

Last weekend, I attended one such conference, comprised primarily of white, Christian conservatives. Although I loved and admired the people that I met, it was still hard not to feel out of place at times in a predominantly white culture. After trying in vain to process and wrestle with my thoughts and emotions in bed, I finally turned the lights back on at 1am and penned this poem. 

My hope in sharing this poem twofold: first, that conservative organizations would broach the topic of cultural diversity more openly and more intentionally reach out to minorities and women; second, that the Asian-Americans and other minorities would support and encourage leaders who desire to serve their communities in the political world. I am thankful for role models (minority or not) who have blazed a path for aspiring leaders like me, and I hope that my children will be able to look up to leaders who truly represent the breadth and depth of America’s melting pot.

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Little Asian Girl in the White Boys’ Club

“Middle school?” My Uber driver asks

“Graduated from college,” I laugh 

“Oh….

Looking young is a good thing”

*thanks for the compliment?

 

Hi. 

I’m just a little Asian girl 

Trying to navigate your big round world

Can I talk like you talk?

Can I dress like you dress?

Can I think like you think?

 

But yet. 

I look different 

Yeah I guess all people are the same

And you say not to judge by the skin

And that color doesn’t matter?

We all equal, after all 

 

I used to think that way

But you see, I was living with people that looked like me

People that talked like me

People that thought like me

My world was diverse 

But it was still a bubble 

 

Now that I’ve stepped into your world

I realize that I had my bubble

And in a strange sort of way I’ve had the opportunity to step into yours

But do you realize that your world is a bubble?

 

Maybe. 

Maybe not. 

 

Either way, I’m not supposed to talk about race.

Because we’re all the same. 

Equal, under God. 

Out of many, one. 

 

For many years I thought that color didn’t matter

I would’ve agreed with you

But when I step into your world, something feels different 

Something feels off

 

All the white boys in the room

With their pretty white wives

And their dangly earrings and pointy toed heels

 

It’s so different. 

 

Because by saying that race doesn’t matter, it sometimes feels like you’re pretending not to notice my difference 

But that doesn’t mean that I don’t feel it. 

 

Your food is different

Your talk is different

Your walk is different 

Everyone looks different from me. And yet we’re all the same?

 

Is that bad?

No. 

And I have a lot to learn, I guess. 

 

But can we stop pretending that I’m the same?

Can we point out the elephant in the room – that I’m the only one here with yellow skin and squinty eyes? 

That, if you listen carefully, I still have traces of my mom’s accent that my high school speech coach could never fully eliminate?

 

Yeah, yeah. 

Color doesn’t matter. 

 

But why do I feel so different?

Why do I feel so insignificant?

What is this angst and why can’t I explain this to anyone?

 

I’ve tried to assimilate 

I’ve tried to learn

But sometimes, just sometimes, I really miss home. 

 

One time I was telling a friend about the Thai curry I made for my friends

I was really proud

The curry reminded me of home

And of my momma’s cooking 

 

But a few hours later

We discussed the menu for a formal political dinner that we’d host 

For Very Important Guests

 

And you briefly remarked that we should make food that everyone would like

“For example, not everyone would like Thai curry”

 

Excuse me?

How can anyone dislike creamy Thai curry over steaming white rice?

 

Felt like my heart was stabbed

But then I remembered 

I was in your world, not mine

 

It’s not your fault that Very Important Guests don’t like Thai curry

It’s not your fault that Very Important Guests are generally white males

Your world is different. And I chose to come here. 

 

But. 

 

I miss my bubble. 

It’s hard trying to understand your culture and fit in

If I’m having a hard time, think of how my immigrant parents would fare if you threw them here

Think of how my immigrant friends back home would feel

 

Maybe that’s why it’s hard for us to break into your world. 

We’re so different, and your culture already has all the answers to society’s problems. Or at least you claim to. 

 

I get you. I, too, believe in Jesus

I, too, believe that the Bible holds answers for everyone 

 

And you know what?

That means we’re brothers and sisters 

And in a very real sense I have more in common with you than I do with people who look the same on the outside but are so different on the inside 

 

People say it’s the inside that matters

But could the outside matter too?

 

I’m an immigrant to your world

Don’t get me wrong I want to stay here

But what if you asked me about mine?

 

Maybe, just maybe, we could start talking about how to reach out to my culture?

Not just to convert them

Not just to win votes

But to understand them

And to include them

To show them that you really care?

That your words are not just fluff?

 

To build bridges

To build trust

To build relationships 

 

Maybe it’ll take humility, I know 

I’ve already had to lay down my pride in seeking to understand your world 

But, you see, the minority always has to understand the majority 

Because otherwise we’d die 

What if, for once, the majority sought to understand the minority?

 

In many ways I’m a trailblazer, I know 

But might I hope that there will be more little Asian girls who dare to step into your big white world?

And might I hope that it’ll be slightly easier for them, just as coming here was easier for me than the generation before me?

And while we’re at it, what about including the Hispanics, the Arabs, the Blacks, the Native Americans?

 

I’ve tried to understand your world

But I would also like to show you mine too

 

It’s a little different

You don’t have to like my food, but it’ll mean a lot to me if you try it 

You don’t even have to use chopsticks – Chinese food with forks is fine.

Oh, and can I show you my grandma’s painting?

And my grandpa’s abacus?

 

I grew up learning about American history

And don’t get me wrong, I’m super proud to be an American 

Super proud. 

 

But I remember somewhere that my history textbook called America a “melting pot”

Shouldn’t we learn about all the ingredients that went into the pot? Even the little spices?

 

There’s a risk that we’ll make your world less white

But at least our world will be a little more colorful?

Is that bad?

All Manner of Thing

Though Love once reared the Hell that broke
Achilles’ rage and weary heart,
And built the horse that breached the walls
And empty temples rent apart—

Though God stretched out His mighty arm
And snatched the Captain’s feeble limb,
Then breathed His vengeance in the Whale
Mad Ahab sought in voyage grim—

Though on the pilgrim’s tired road
The Wife of Bath to travelers told
Of sovereignty and ancient grief
And men that snapped her aged soul—

Though on the rising mountain path
The Poet lost his dearest guide
Who suffered, suffered into truth
He could not know before he died—

Perhaps the hands that built the walls
And tore that city down again
Will dry those eyes that weep for Troy
And cross the souls of soldiers slain.

Perhaps the mind that ever knows
The Crucifix in Ahab’s face
Has sent His Son to calm the waves
And shatter in the Pequod’s place.

In Canterbury’s springtime joy,
Perhaps the Woman’s hearing’s healed,
And like the lone Samaritan,
She tastes the Christ in bread concealed.

Perhaps the poets blessed the road
Which touched the sweetly trickling stream
That flows from Lethe into Hell
To purge the sinners’ waking dream—

Perhaps all Dante’s widening world
Reveals a grace too light and sparse—
And Virgil meets the Love at last
That moves the sun and other stars.

The Bitter Cup

How is it we so often stare complacently
At that solemn reminder hewn from wood
A beam across another in humility
How little we give thanks for what we should

To think that when relief was offered willingly
Their bitter cup He for a worse disdained
Refusing any chance to lessen agony
Through poison or a dulling of His pain

How can we gloss over these hours unthinkingly
Even with knowledge of an empty tomb
To think our shame erased His earthly dignity
That torture rightly ours He would assume

His suffering was not less due to His deity
Nor lighter weight to bear as God divine
But as the innocent, it was infinity
Compared to the deserved that would be mine